


The Sinner and the Saint

by bright73



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-25
Updated: 2007-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bright73/pseuds/bright73
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of Warrick's demons are unveiled and tamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sinner and the Saint

While driving home the image of the tiny baby haunted Warrick endlessly. The bruises on the chubby body, the skin darkened in patches where the hits had landed just before she died in excruciating pain. The black, silky curls sticky with blood from the fatal wound on her neck; a wound that exposed both the bones and the viciousness of some mothers. This one in particular had probably been pumped up on every drug known to man, and then some.  
And he had believed her; the thick, weepy voice when she told him that a young black man had ripped her baby out of the pram while she had been napping, had his heart go out to her. The dark eyes, imploring him to tell her that her baby-girl hadn't suffered, tugged at his heart. The mother was so young, not much more than a girl herself. And he hated when the young ones were exposed to crimes that adults like himself had a hard time coping with.

In retrospect he knew he should have started questioning the truth in that specific moment when the 'black young male' card was dealt. It was always an unknown black male in his twenties that committed the crimes. The convenient scapegoat created and hailed by the media. But the desolation of the young mother seemed real; the wringing of hands, the breathless cry and the small shivers as she sat on the one stool in her apartment. The poverty evident in the sparsely equipped and dingy rental situated in a part of town that no child should grow up in. He'd had friends living under similar circumstances; some of them hadn't made it past their teens. It all ended far too soon for little Simone Dennier; she was robbed of everything in a fit of rage or delirium. And he had been momentarily conned into believing the tale of the young mother with tears in her eyes. Until he found the paraphernalia hidden behind the cushions of the patched couch and the tremors in the woman's hands took on a different meaning.

He had felt totally betrayed; he wanted to believe that young woman, needed to believe that mothers loved their babies, no matter what. That was how it was supposed to be and that was what he needed to believe, for a myriad of reasons.

Not that he had personal experience with the mothering thing, he'd always only had Gram and that had been just fine with him. His folks had died in a car-accident when he was so young that he wasn't even able to remember them any longer. He's been fed with Gram's stories about how loved he was while they watched photographs of him sitting on his father's knees, the smiling man awkwardly cradling him and the laughing woman at his side holding onto her baby's socked foot tenderly. He had been drooling on something orange in the picture, most probably a rubber dog for what it looked like. Gram always told him he'd had that fierce proud look ever since he was a toddler and sounded proud when she said it. To Warrick it looked like he wanted to bite something else than the rubber dog. What had prompted that fierce look, he had no idea. There weren't many pictures of the three of them. You never believe there won't be more occasions to snap that perfect picture and capture the memories. In his case fate had taken that away on a highway while he was snoring in his bed at Gram's. He had no re-collection of it other than later, he'd ask for his Mom or Pop and Gram had cried and picked him up in her strong arms. He must have cried too, but he couldn't remember; all there was was a blankness until he turned five. Oddly enough he remembered that birthday clearly. Maybe because he got a red fire truck that held water in a tank on top. The one he had been looking at in the toy-store window for a long time. Never had he loved his Gram more than when he opened the package and caught the first glimpse of red steel. He had cried then, clutching that fire truck to his chest and refused to let it go even when he was helped to bed. Still he had no idea why that fire-truck was so dear to him. How come he remembered a freaking fire-truck but not his folks?  
Nick always said he'd probably blocked it all out, all the sadness and the loneliness. Trust Stokes to butt in and try to figure things out. Maybe he had, but that was probably for the best because he'd turned out all right after all and no way in hell his man was going to be allowed to psycho-analyze him anyhow.

Still, Simone Dennier's beaten and lifeless body had his blood boil with an anger that was barely containable. For a moment he'd felt the familiar need to beat the odds by betting and getting some kind of retaliation for the souls lost in the battle of life. Then it dawned on him that he was just as big of a liar as the weeping woman who'd killed her only child. He wouldn't be playing for any lost souls; he'd be betting for the rush of adrenaline, the sense of challenging fate and beating it. Like if he had divine control or something. Control; that was what he wanted most of all and that was what seemed to always slip through his fingers.

The anger still lurked right under the surface when he steered away from the Sahara and drove aimlessly on the smaller streets, having no real goal but letting pure whims decide which way he turned in the intersections. He wanted to go home and lay his head in his man's lap and soak up the Stokesian strength but he knew he'd just pick a fight with him instead. It always ended up that way when he was in this pissy mood. He'd just pick on Nick until he gave in and they'd goad each other until one of them exploded and they'd end up in a heated argument that finally ended up in them fucking each others brains out. It seldom solved anything; it was just too easy to use Nick to blow off steam and his man really didn't deserve that kind of treatment.

He didn't know how he'd ended up outside the cemetery, but here he was, driving past the gates. Spotting a woman sitting on a bench with a bucket of long-stemmed red roses at her feet, he made a U-turn and headed back for the parking lot.

Getting out of his truck, he was struck by how high the air felt, the first coolness of fall announced, despite the sun trying to battle it with blinding light peaking from behind thickening clouds. The gravel crunched under his soles when he made his way to the gates and the woman with the roses. His man had rubbed off on him something awful, because he was all 'Ma'am' and polite 'thank you's when he left her the rather large amount of change. That's what Nick would do, and he found himself acting in that same manner more and more often. The softer side in him had been pulled to the surface and he was not entirely sure it was a good thing.

He spotted the rose in Gram's vase from far and suspected that Nick had been here recently. That one red rose was so him. And out of nowhere he felt the anger invade him again. The fucking saint had beaten him to it, and it wasn't the first time. Nick would visit the cemetery far more often than he did, always leaving the one red rose at Gram's headstone. He knew the man meant well but it felt like a slap to his face. Gram's own flesh and blood clearly visited her less than a fucking do-gooder-Texan that had known her for what, five years? He paused mid-stride, making a mental note that today his rationality had, without a doubt, taken a temporary leave of absence. Nick was the only one at the lab, he'd told about Gram's sudden passing and his bud was the one to rent a minivan to take all Gram's elderly friends to the funeral. Nicholas-fucking-saint-Stokes was the one that let the single red rose fall down to the casket with a heart-felt 'Goodbye, I'll miss you' while he himself was unable to say anything at all. He'd never forget his best bud by his side at one of the worst moments in his life; when the last of his family was laid to rest by his deceased parents and there was nobody left but he. The realization had almost knocked the air out of him and he had not been able to stop that one single tear that rolled down his cheek when he stood there, watching Nick's flower fall like in slow-motion. He looked over at his best bud, expressing the gratitude he felt for the time he'd taken to attend and Nick had stepped back to stand at his side, close enough for their shoulders to touch while the ceremony went on. Warrick hadn't been able to figure out if the lump in his throat was there because of Gram or Nick, but at least there had been no more tears.

He watched the headstone with the photograph of Gram in her sixties, a maternal air about her where she sat stiffly propped up for the portrait. Seldom had Gram been that still in real life, she'd always been doing something around the house when she returned from work. If it wasn't mending his torn socks, it was baking him cookies or singing while she dusted the photographs on the bookshelf. Or hanging over the balcony, chatting with Mrs. Delbert across the washed clothes hung out to dry, one foot tapping against the concrete under her feet. Like keeping the rhythm of music playing in her head. That was Gram all right; always in motion.

Warrick put the last roses in the vase by the adjoining headstone. The faded photograph of his folks smiled up at him when he walked away, suppressing the guilt for not mourning them the way he probably should. He'd have to remember to visit here more often!

How many times hadn't he promised himself that?

The crispness of the air had lessened considerably and turned more somberly humid when he reached his truck and climbed in. Now he just wanted to go home. When he started the truck, the radio came alive with the sound of an infant's giggle. Followed by the happy tune of Stevie Wonders' 'Isn't she lovely'. Simone's beaten body on Doc's cold table flashed before his eyes and he felt the anger at the mother having conned him, flare through him all over.

The woman at the gate looked at him when he gunned it out of the parking lot, her reprimanding stare following him in the rear-view mirror.

Hell, I've never been no saint, he thought as he watched the speedometer climb over the legal limit. To sin was like his second nature, a nature he had to keep in tight reins. He'd married a woman while wanting a man; he'd lied to her and connived her like the murdering woman had done to him. Just to keep denying the truth he'd felt was too hard to handle. The fact that he wanted his best bud in ways that were still considered sinful and dirty to many, had burned like a slow, unquenchable fire until he was about to lose his mind, begging for just one night. He'd watched the man he loved nearly die, buried alive and that had rattled his world like nothing before. The fear of losing him made him reject him instead, and marry on a whim. Didn't a lot of people die when he got close anyhow? Now he loved the man with a fervor that was almost too much to handle. What he felt for the sweet, puppy dog eyed Texan, who had the capacity to charm the pants off anybody, robbed him of control and he hated that he was so open and exposed. Still it was just that feeling of not having to play it cool around his man that was so alluring. Not that he'd ever tell Nick that. He lied, he hated, he lusted and he was jealous on a regular basis, like the quintessential sinner he was.

Sainthood was for people like squeaky clean Nick Stokes with all his priorities set straight and ruby red roses for Gram.

 

When Warrick entered their townhouse, the scent of food cooking slapped him in the face. It was his turn to do the cooking and the fucking saint he lived with was taking care of business while he had been out cruising the streets. Like he needed reminding about how much he relied on the man in the first place? Now he was being fed and pampered too?

Frustrated he flipped the keys toward the table with the phone and missed. He was not only losing the grip on how to read people and situations, he was losing his aim too? Bending to get the keys, he groaned at the pull in his tensed back and cursed loudly when he rose and slammed the keys to their designated place by the phone.

"You ok, bro?"

The saint was standing in the kitchen doorway, a snug T-shirt and sweatpants hanging low on the hips, the concern evident in the chocolate eyes. Nick looked fresh like a daisy despite the long hours he'd worked and Warrick felt like he was intruding with his stinking mood and sweat-reeking body. Guilt washed over him again and he merely grunted a reply while toeing off his shoes.

"You look like hell, Warr. Go grab a shower, food'll be ready in about fifteen."

"Why the hell you cooking for, man? I wanted take-out!"

Oh, he could see that it stung and somewhere deep inside he kicked his own ass for doing exactly what he'd been driving around to avoid.

"Phone's right there, Warr and nobody's stopping you."

The fucker just shrugged and turned to walk back into the kitchen and Warrick was left behind, still seething for some unexplainable reason. He didn't need or deserve the fucking Stokesian understanding right now; he needed to be put in his place, told to shut the fuck up and chill. He needed somebody to tell him to forget and go on, pull his currently over-sized ego out of his ass and get a grip. Nick calmly turning his back on him was only riling him up even further. So he stalked in after the man, muttering under his breath about being nice and understanding not cutting it this time. But Nick stood at the counter, rinsing the salad and Warrick felt the guilt kick his gut again.

"Gimme that slinger," he growled and tugged at the bowl. "You always leave it too soggy, man."

He received nothing but a tired glance and tugged again.

"Just plant your ass on a chair, Warr and take a breather. I'm not into going a thirteen rounder with you today. If you got something to say, just say it! "

"I just did," Warrick snapped. "Let go of the fucking slinger, man. Not like you own it or something. I'm capable of making the salad. Hell, I'm an expert on salads compared to you. You stink at rinsing the salad and you cut the tomatoes too big. Nobody wants chunks the size of a Hindenburg in their salads."

"It's not 'a Hindenburg', Warr, it's a zeppelin coz Hindenburg was the name of that particular -."

"Aw shit, don't go Grissom on me now, bro! A doctorate in Discovery channel tidbits of useless information won't cut it with me." He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. Jesus, this was all he needed, the saint lecturing him on aircraft history.

Nick didn't let go but met with his eyes calmly. "What's this all about, Rick? What's got you this bent outta shape?"

"Coz' I don't like your culinary experiments I'm bent outta shape? Man, lemme tell you, you're closing in on sainthood and all but you still can't fix a decent salad."

"Anything else I'm not good enough for you at?” Nick's voice was chillingly void of emotion and Warrick's anger subsided considerably at the tone.

"Huh?" He stepped up closer to the man, feeling slightly derailed at the sudden twist.

"You heard me!"

The thing about this new Nick was that sometimes he had the capacity to jar Warrick totally. The thing when he reined in every emotion and operated on stone-cold logic was clearly post-the horrid event that Warrick didn't even want to think about. And frankly, sometimes it freaked him out.

"Nicky?"

"Don't 'Nicky' me, Warr. If you have something to say, just say it and don't even to deal the 'nuttin' card. Any complaints – lay them out. If not, you're fricken gonna spill what's really up your ass!"

Warrick was speechless as usual when his man took on that look of emotionless investigation. The steady gaze felt penetrating and there was never anywhere to run when it landed on him and divested him from all his shielding layers and exposing all his sins.

"What happened out there, Rick? Hodges told me you were all snarky when you retrieved the results. A baby, huh?"

The eyes held him captive, remaining locked with his and ready to interpret every minute change in his mood. He struggled to keep his voice even and non-committal.

"Yeah, eight months old girl. Mother offed her and lied straight to my face about it. She tried the old 'black-monster-snatching-tale. What else is new? Not a big deal, really. I'm just -." He shrugged, finally able to pull his gaze away from Nick's when the oven let out a beep to signal that the meatloaf was ready. The sound momentarily broke the spell and gave him some respite.

"That's not all, is it Rick?"

The tone of Nick's voice was investigative and the eyes softened enough to make Warrick's jaw tremble slightly, like it wanted to open and spill whatever was ailing him. Things he didn't even have a total grip on himself wanted to escape his control and jump out there. He just wasn't ready; he'd probably never be ready to look that hard at himself.

"Look man, I'm starving, can we just eat before you psycho-analyze me, Sigmund? Just lay the fuck off it already!"

Warrick turned and walked out of the kitchen, steering his steps to the bathroom where he repeatedly rinsed his face with cold water. When he looked up and saw the grim expression on his face, he cringed. Nick was getting dangerously close to that little scared boy that resided inside of him and just wanted to be held. The side of him that he hated the most; the weak needy one.  
Facing Nick right now was out of the question and he decided to shave instead. Anything to keep busy, anything not to have to look inside and handle what was going on.

 

The sound of running water had served to close out the sounds of Nick. But damned if it worked. Now Warrick was freshly shaved and straining his ears to hear what was going on. The front door had opened and shut and there had been a long time of complete silence after that. Had Nick walked out on him? Another thing that pissed him off - because if anybody was to walk out, it was he. That's what he always did when relationships ended, he'd always been the one to call the shots and leave the other one behind. It was kind of a lousy victory for not coping but it was a question of pride. Nick didn't strike him as the type to walk out on anybody, had he been mistaken and fooled? Would he find a hastily scribbled goodbye note on the kitchen table when he'd gathered the brawn to exit the bathroom? Would his own tactics finally slap him in the face?

When the front door finally opened and closed again, he felt a ridiculous sense of relief wash over him like a tide as he stood with his ear pressed to the bathroom door - like a chick eavesdropping. He still felt trapped; what was he supposed to do now? Walk out and pretend nothing had happened? Like he hadn't stormed off like a drama-queen with PMS?

"Warr? What you wanna eat? Mexican or Chinese, just lemme know and I'll order."

Trust fucking Nicholas Stokes to save his face with his damned sainthood. The tone was neutral and it irritated Warrick further that the man was able to even inadvertently smooth the waves and help him out. It irritated him even more that he had opened the bathroom door so fast that Nick took a step back in surprise. He'd have to be an idiot not to realize that Warrick had been right behind it, waiting for a sign of life just to be able to crawl out of hiding.

"Meatloaf's fine," he grumbled, unable to meet with Nick's eyes and squeezed his way around the man, close enough to shove him off balance when he stalked to the kitchen.

Everything was already set on the table, the mashed potatoes, the vegetables and even the sweating beer bottles. Nick had left nothing for him to do and Warrick sighed as he sank down on the chair and grabbed a beer. Nick calmly retrieved the newspaper and offered Warrick the sports pages before he sat down. Warrick declined the offer and Nick shrugged and served himself without a word.

 

They ate in silence. It wasn't really uncomfortable, just odd. Warrick would sneak a peak at his man every now and then, hoping to catch his eyes to try and read him. But Nick was immersed in the newspaper, either feigning not to see or really not minding Warrick's feeble attempts to start some kind of peace talk. At the end Warrick had to cave.

"S'good man, new recipe?"

Nick finally looked at him and smiled. "Nope, tried my hand at Gram's peppered meatloaf but I eased up a bit on the Cayenne. I remember you almost coughing a lung out last time she served it."

The mentioning of Gram had a wave of hurt roll through him. It had been years and still he missed her, their home and the flowery curtains waving in the wind from the open window. The eternal scent of cinnamon bread in the air and Gram's voice when she called and scolded him for not coming over enough. "You the one with the rose?" he asked, looking down at his plate.

"Huh?"

"I went to the cemetery after shift. You the one?"

"I stopped by on my way home from a crime-scene." Nick said noncommittally.

"You didn't have to go out of your way," Warrick mumbled. "Not your duty."

Warrick literally felt the mood change when Nick let the newspaper fall to the table and shifted in his chair.

"Duty?"

"If you think I'm not being respectful of the dead or something, just spit it out and don't go remedying my shortcomings in every department." He lifted his eyes from the empty plate and looked at the man sitting opposite him. Nick looked genuinely puzzled at the outburst.

"What the -?"

"You think I don't care enough 'bout my folks? That it? Because I'm not there every week like a fucking saint? Because I'm not all show and tell it means I don't care? That it, Nicky?"  
For a moment Nick looked shell-shocked and Warrick tried to rein in the anger that had assaulted him out of nowhere.

"So that's what this is all about, Rick? Guilt?" Nick's voice had lowered and he was leaning in over the table.

"What the fuck you yapping about, man?" His own voice was no more than a growl.

“I called Cath, Rick. I asked what had happened and she said she didn't know but you went all edgy on her. More so than other times with kids involved. When she told me about the case, I kinda figured -."

Warrick couldn't believe his ears and impatiently waved his hand in front of Nick's face. "Excuse me, you did what?"

"Jeez Rick, you come home two hours later after we clocked out, looking like shit and not talking. What was I supposed to do, guess?" There was a hint of irritation in Nick's voice and that was enough for Warrick to seethe in his seat.

"You fucking checkin' up on me now?"

"I wanted to know what happened, why you're wired up so tight a wrong word sets you off. I get it Rick; a young black mother murdering her child and blaming it on a brother. I get it; you've always held everyone to such high standards. You expect anyone of color to be aware of how closely they are guarded and how easily the wrong action is turned into a label. You don't know nothing about the girl, Rick; you don't know what she's been trough. What she did has nothing to do with the color of her skin, you of all people should know that. And your folks didn't leave you on purpose Rick, they died in a freak accident and I know they didn't want to leave you, there was nothing they could do."

The words were so spot on that the rage that swept through Warrick at being exposed had him up on his feet, chair falling to the tiled floor.

"Me of all people? What's that supposed to mean? What the fuck do you know, Nick? Growing up in a fucking manor? Poppa paving any way you'da chosen? Momma there to read you a bedside story every night, watching over her baby like a hawk. You could pick whatever college you wanted and Poppa Judge coughed up the money without blinking. You didn't have to walk to school and wonder who'd beat you up today because you were too white to be a brother and too black to be white. What the fuck do you know? The worst problem you've ever had in your life is if your socks match your fucking shirt!"

The moment the harshly yelled and uncensored words registered, Warrick was struck with the absolute injustice he'd just served his man. Nick scrambled backwards, rising to stand behind the chair, face pale and shoulders tensed like he in turn wanted to run. Nick was looking at him like if he were really seeing him for the first time, seeing what a fucking dip-shit he really was.

"Jesus, Nicky," Warrick breathed, reaching out for his man. "I didn't -."

Nick raised a hand to stop him despite the table separating them and took another step back. "Don't, Rick, I don't – I know about the collective guilt we should all be carrying for what we've done but I've never seen you as anything else than a man I love and admire. I can't look at you as anything else. I know you don't believe that color doesn't count for me, I'm white, I'm part of a system that's racist by default, I know that! What I don't know is what I have to do to change it?"

"Jesus Christ, Nicky, c'mon!" Warrick moved to get to the man who was starring at him with wild black eyes, but as soon as he took a step to the side, Nick retreated further.

"I can't fix what you went through, I can't resurrect your folks, I can't delete the injustice, I can't do anything of that and I don't know how else I've failed! Don't you think I'da changed it if it were in my powers? You think I wouldn't have done anything for you? You saved my life, bro. I'll owe you forever and I'd do anything for you, I thought you knew that!"

The desperation in Nick's voice literally ripped Warrick's heart to pieces. "Nicky," he repeated, his voice stumbling on the lump that had formed in his throat.

"No Rick," Nick walked backwards, both hands up like shields. "I can't handle this right now. Man. I'm sorry, I gotta – I'll take the trash out an' tidy up the – I gotta go." He turned on his heels, taking two wobbly steps and yanked the bag out of the container before he stumbled to the front door and was out of their house.

Warrick walked to the window, afraid Nick would take the car and accidentally drive into a wall or something. He watched Nick walk to the trash bin on the other side of the street. Barefoot he walked down the driveway, while the clouds grew darker above him. Then he tossed the bag before he leaned with his hands against the gray plastic and his head sank in defeat.

The picture of Nick standing there, feet naked on the dirty pavement, the wind ruffling his hair as the first drops of rain streaked on the window, had Warrick's heart explode into painful shreds of guilt that throbbed in his veins. What he wanted to do was run out after the man, wrap his arms around Nick's middle and drag him back inside. But he knew that causing a scene like that would have Nick retreat even further and just maybe tip the scale enough to make him walk out. Warrick didn't dare risk that; he wasn't sure his man would ever come back. The vivid memory of the desperation in the dark eyes at the words thrown in his face had Warrick nauseated.

So he bent to pick up the fallen chair and place it at the window, so he'd have full view of the driveway and Nick, before he sank down on it, feeling his knees wobble slightly. Resting his head in his hands, he drew deep breaths to reassemble himself and quell the nausea. What the fuck had prompted him to throw words like that in the face of a man that had been buried alive, thrown out of a second floor window and molested as a child? A man that had always had his back? His Nicky, the man he loved?

He groaned and rubbed his eyes hard, needing physical pain to counteract the sensation of pure fear of losing Nick, not to death like he'd feared for a long time, but because of his own flapping tongue. Because of who he was; a man without control when it came to his anger and guilt, a man that was unable to look at himself and accept that yes - what Nick had said was true and he obviously was unable to handle it. He did expect more from people of color, namely people of his color. He did sometimes judge them harsher because he knew they needed to perform better to be considered half as good. And yes, their actions labeled even him in the eyes of many. But he had a set of labels of his own and that was a hard part to accept. A lily white mother, blaming the 'unknown black male' would have been expected, coming from a young black woman, it pulled the rug from under his feet.

The sound of raindrops against the window had him look up and he noticed that the rain fell harder and fitter. Turning his eyes to the driveway he saw Nick still standing leaned up against the plastic bin; face lifted towards the sky, he blinked against the drops that fell on his face.

Warrick couldn't take it any longer and walked to the front door and yanked it open. He didn't have to say anything as he stepped out on the porch, the sound of the door opening had alerted Nick and their eyes met over the distance.

"C'mon," Warrick mouthed, trying to soundlessly will the man back inside.

Finally Nick relented and came padding across the street, hands stuck in the pockets of the loose sweatpants, head downcast and feet shuffling over the now wet asphalt. Warrick waited patiently and when Nick stepped up the stairs he took a step forward, reaching out for his man. But Nick slid to the side, avoiding him.

"Warr, don't – not now. Let's just get in outta this rain."

Warrick let his arm fall to his side and opened the door wider, leaving Nick the room he needed. The amount of damage he had done to what they had was huge, he knew that but he was, just like Nicky, ready to do anything to remedy what he had caused. If Nick would only let him know how to fix this, he'd jump at it.

Following his man inside, he noticed that the shields had been pulled up. Those same walls he noticed at work more often than not, that distance Nick was able to put up between himself and the rest, without even being obvious about it. The wall was just there, impenetrable; fencing every emotion inside the solid body he loved but couldn't reach right now. Those walls had seldom been raised to shut him out and never as firmly as now. The totally closed off stance and the darkened, empty eyes that clearly avoided his were worse than any words Nick could have spoken.

"Nick," he tried again. "Dammit man, you know I didn't -."

"Go take a shower or something, Warr." The man spoke tiredly, brushing an arm over his forehead. "Don't wanna get into anything right now, please, Rick, just drop it."

It was the lack of emotion that slugged Warrick in the pit of his stomach. That cool emotionless voice in a perfectly neutral statement was all so unlike the man Nick was before the horrid incident that had them both trashing with nightmares on occasions. The incident that had almost taken his man's life. It had been a question of seconds between life and death and Warrick was still not able to fully comprehend how Nick had survived. And every time Nick turned up the walls, he was painfully reminded about how little he really knew about what Nick had really gone through. Watching him had been painful - painful enough to make it unbearable as the end neared.

It was just as painful watching Nick now; closed off and wary, dodging Warrick's eyes and untouchable behind the invisible wall as he started to tidy up the kitchen table, meticulously gathering the empty plates and turning his back on Warrick.

And Warrick fled to the bathroom, unable to watch his man's tensed shoulders and empty eyes. He ripped his clothes off, feeling dirty; soiled to the core.

 

The hot water burned his skin, but it was not nearly enough to rid him of the pain. The course part of the sponge left red marks on his skin, and still it wasn't enough to rid him of the guilt. How the fuck did one wash a conscience when the man you'd used as a fucking trash bin for your own shit wouldn't look at you? How the fuck did you get rid of the mortal sin of hurting the one you love because you were rattled and pissed off? Taking the easy way out and laying it on somebody else's shoulders?

He turned the water off and leaned his forehead against the cool tiles on the wall and listened. Nick was still in the kitchen, dishes were being loaded into the washer, the clink of porcelain leaking in through the bathroom door he had let open on purpose. Still he felt trapped in the situation. What did he do next? How did he fix this mess that his big mouth had created?

Leaning on his arms, plastered to the tiles, he banged his forehead against the wall and welcomed the pain. What the fuck was he supposed to do next?

 

Warrick didn't know how long he had stood there, mulling things over, cast up against the tiles before he heard Nick enter and wash his hands. Warrick held his breath, waiting for his man's next move. He could literally picture him standing there, outside the stall, wondering if this shit was really worth fixing.

"You okay in there, bro?"

The voice was Nick's usual warm one, not the closed off, efficient one that he used in interrogations or when pissed. The relief had Warrick's voice deepen and hitch when he answered that he was.

Cool air wafted in from outside when Nick opened the sliding door and a towel was laid on Warrick's shoulders.

Instinctively he turned to his man, wrapped his arms around the solid body to pull Nick in to rest between himself and the tiles. Nick's t-shirt was damp from the rain and got slopping wet when Warrick leaned all his weight on the man and held on for dear life.

Nick huffed. "Bro, ever considered letting me breathe?"

Warrick loosened his desperate grip and leaned his head in the crook of his man's neck and shoulder. He didn't trust his voice yet so he just held on, tuned in to Nick's breaths that ran calm and even against his ear. Maybe he made a sound, he wasn't sure, but Nick's hand came to lay on his neck and the other curled around his waist and pulled him closer.

That was when he had to clam his eyes shut to stop the tears and breathe in deeply to calm the shivers that wracked his body.

"S'okay man," Nick mumbled to his ear and Warrick smiled in spite of everything. Here he was, the one slapping his man around verbally and Nick-the-saint demurely assured him that everything was all right.

"You're right," Warrick admitted in a raspy voice.

"Huh?"

"What you said, you're right." He buried his face deeper into the warmth of his man. "So fuckin' right that I hate you. I do expect more of some people, don't intend to, but I do."

The thumb of Nick's right hand massaged the tensed tendon on Warrick's neck soothingly.

"And I think Gram resented my father, I'll never know why. She'd never speak about him, she just told me he was probably Irish and had fled his country for some reason. I don't think she even knew. I'll never know why exactly because they took it to their graves. I'd like to know why Gram never spoke of him. Was he the wrong religion being Catholic and marrying a Presbyterian? Had he done something or was it simply because he was white? I always wondered if my eyes bothered Gram – because she always said I had my father's eyes."

"Gram loved your eyes, Warr! She called you her green-eyed handsome devil behind your back. And she was a lot like you, Rick; she clammed up on things that were hurtful. See the pattern here?"

"Shut up Sigmund," Warrick grinned against his man's skin.

"Stuff it, Warr! You're gonna hear this out. She didn't right out tell me, but I could read between the lines, Rick. She felt guilty over having survived her only child; you know she always said that parents should never survive their children. She was scared stiff of surviving you too. Oh, she'd rant about you, but Rick, anyone could hear the pride in her voice. It was just that talking about your folks proved too much for her. And did you ever even ask questions?"

"No." Warrick admitted. "I was the cool cat, y'know, not needing anybody."

"And that's why you test people that get close to you? To see if they can handle the fact that you're not all that tough? Because you think that if they ever find out that you need them, they'll split? And then you leave before you get left?"

If the arm hadn't been holding him so tight, he might have proven Nick right in that very instance. He made a garbled sound and Nick pulled him closer, strong fingers cupping the back of Warrick's head and steadying him.

"I'm not gonna leave you, Rick."

He clammed his eyes shut, trying to regulate his breath that hitched and left him in rushed puffs. Nick just stood there, holding on and waiting him out until his breath settled and he was able to swallow the lump in his throat.

They stood there for a long time, Warrick soaking up the warmth his man provided. There was just this one thing that bothered him, always had and always would. So finally he had to ask:

"Why wasn't I in the car with them, Nick? Why was Holly killed when it could have been me instead? Why did you get thrown out of a window the minute I turned my back? Why wasn’t it me? Why did the coin land like it did and -."

"That's why you're stuck on gambling, Rick? Because you're testing your ability to beat the odds? Just waiting for pay-back? Because you think you've been too lucky? That it, hon?"

The truth of the statement took Warrick's breath away. It was like a weight was lifted off his shoulders and the blood ran easier in his veins. Of course, that was it. So very clear now that it was laid out plain and simple for him to see. How had all that got so mingled up in his brain? How was Nick so good at seeing his demons and call them by their right names?

"You're probably right on, baby."

"Whoa! Hold on now and call the national press! Warrick Brown admits I'm right about something? Now you're starting to scare me, big boy!" Nick chuckled and slipped both arms around him, giving him a bear-hug.

"Smart-ass!" Warrick snorted and bit tenderly at the curve of his man's broad shoulder.

"Ouch!" Nick slapped his ass hard and wriggled to get out of his hold. "C'mon big boy, I'll rub you down coz you're still all tense and shivery."

"What?" Warrick pulled back to glare at his man. "You callin' me girly and weak?"

"You're such a cutsie tootsie when you're all shaky and needin' your man to cuddle you." Nick smiled at him.

"I might have to whip your scrawny ass for that, Stokes," Warrick mock-growled.

"Be a good boy and I'll whip yours." Nick winked before he leaned in and purred in Warrick's ears. "Another day, when you're less wobbly."

Warrick retaliated by turning on the shower and getting his man wet and protesting.

"I already took a shower!"

"Not with me you didn't," Warrick noted and pulled the soaked Tee over the pouting man's head.

 

 

Nick was still mumbling and pouting over his inevitable 'bed hair' when Warrick dragged him out of the shower.

Warrick watched him look at himself in the mirror, frown deepening, when he tried to straighten the damp hair out, while mumbling something about needing to get a buzz-cut for obvious reasons.

"What?" Warrick chuckled. "You afraid sainthood will be lost if you clock in looking happily fucked?"

"I'll show you sainthood, man. As soon as I get the tools." Nick reached into the cupboard, rummaging around and Warrick couldn't help nuzzling the creased skin on his man's neck and cup the ass.

"Lookin' for the handcuffs, baby?"

"You're such a perv, Rick and hands off my ass. I'm trying to concentrate here!" He pulled out a small bottle and read the label. "Got it!"

"New lube?" Warrick asked, reaching for the bottle.

Nick held his hand away and backed them out of the bathroom. "Is sex all you can think of, man?"

"I'm the quintessential sinner and I wanna sex it up with you, baby." Warrick purred when he was forced to back toward the bedroom.

"And the pick-up lines keep on hitting rock bottom," Nick rolled his eyes. "I think that was the worst one up to date. Sex it up? You been readin' Greggo's girlie magazines again? Want a crash-course in working pick up lines, honey-bun?"

"Do you have to stop at the lines, baby? Why not give me some proper action? Fuck, what ya doin', Nicky?" He laughed when he found himself wrestled into bed, rolled to his stomach and pressed to the mattress by a hot, solid body.

"Want me to show you heaven on earth, big boy?" Nick whispered hoarsely to the nape of his neck.

"Oh yeah, baby," Warrick grinned into the pillow. "Keep talking!"

"Thought you wanted action?" Nick moved to sit across his butt and chuckled happily while fiddling with the bottle he'd kept hidden in his hand. A scent of Sandalwood filled the air. Then strong fingers ran over Warrick's shoulder-blades and he moaned helplessly when a warm oily substance was rubbed into the sore parts, sending his skin tingling.

"Nicky baby, what you got in that bottle?" he moaned.

"Magic. All for you, boss-man." Nick purred and pressed the flat of his hands on either side of Warrick's spine and moved them up and down, slowly and persistently. Loosening up every knot and tension residing there. When Nick's hands came up over his arms, he tried to catch the fingers and hold on to them, wanting to watch the flexing of muscles under the oiled skin. But Nick wouldn't let him hang on and laughed softly deep in his throat at Warrick's futile trials to grab onto him.

"Close your eyes, boss, close them and relax. I'll be right here, taking your aches and pain away. You trust me on that, snuggle-bear?"

"Nicky, I trust me with my life, you schmuck," Warrick grunted. "Don't make me go all girly on you."

The last sentence slipped out with a ridiculous keening sound when he felt the ring on Nick's finger slide over his bicep, the contrast between the softness of skin and the smoothness of the metal going right to his groin. His fingers gripped for the sheet as he tried to suppress the moan when the agile fingers kneaded their way down his back and landed on his buttocks.

More oil was applied and strong thumbs drew circles on the sensitive globes. Warrick bucked up against the hands, while his fingers gripped at the sheets. "Oh god, baby. Feels so good!"

"It's supposed to be relaxing and soothing, Rick, not erotic." Nick leaned in and whispered close to the nape of Warrick neck, hot breath dancing like wildfire up and down his spine - before Nick slapped his ass. "Chill, dammit! Every thing's not about sex."

Warrick craned his head to look at his man. "Baby, there are certain parts that are of a slightly different opinion. One happens to be the one you're manhandling."

"I better stop fondling you then, right?" Nick's hands slid over his oily back, thumbs roaming teasingly along the dip his spine before they landed on his arms, fingers teasing the soft skin on the inside of his elbows.

Nick eased himself to lie down, covering Warrick's back. When the Nick's erection was firmly pressed against the small of his back, there was no way to stop the silly monosyllabic moan escaping him in a half-mumble, half-whimper.

Kisses rained over his back, hands stroking the length of his arms and side. Whispered words punctuated every light kiss to his burning skin and all he wanted was Nick inside him, hard and fast. What he needed was to be owned; taken and fucked till every cell in body exploded. He moved under Nick, needed the friction of the hard body on top of him and the silken sheet caressing his erection. The oil warmed his skin, making it sizzle under the hands running over it.

"Nicky, please, fuck me!" He wasn't in the mood of pleading or begging, but he knew he'd be there anyhow and added a breathless 'please'.

Nick turned him to his side, resting plastered up against his back and letting his hand roam the length of Warrick's flank. A leg sneaked in between his and his cock twitched with anticipation.

Tilting his head back he searched for the lips that played with the skin on his neck. He wanted that soft tongue in his mouth, delving deep inside and playing with his own. Dark eyes met his and he arched into the solid body, grabbing the wrist and pulling the arm flush around his middle to be as close as possible to the heat. Nick closed his eyes and suckled Warrick's lower lip in between his own.

Something about that gesture, so intimate, had Warrick's heart doing silly little jumps of joy and he turned to his back, gripped his man's neck and pulled him into a deep kiss. He smiled when Nick groaned and he suckled the probing tongue in deeper and instantly heated up further by the sensation. Wetness, heat and the taste of the uniquely Nick had his hand trail down Nick's side and grip the hip, pulling it closer still. Nick's erection pulsated against his hipbone and he the feverish need left him moaning petulantly when Nick broke the kiss.

"Baby, please," he whispered between nibbles to the swollen lips. "Don't punish me like this, just fuck me already."

Nick turned his attention to the joint of Warrick neck and shoulder, licking and nibbling his way up to Warrick's earlobe. With a feral grin, he played it with the tip of his tongue.

"The lube, Nick, the fucking lube! Hand it over or I'll hurt you." Warrick growled while his cock leaked onto his tensed abdomen.

"What you wanna do with it, big boy?" Nick teased and drew circles around the wet spots, the oiled finger leaving a hot trail in its wake. "You don't want me to play with you any longer?" The palm of the hand rubbed Warrick's front, spreading the stringent, Sandalwood scented oil over his nipples and pectorals.

The effect was immediate, the sweet burn making the nubs ache from need. He inhaled deeply and strained up to the hand that had moved to play with his balls, weighing them playfully to then finally slide upward and close around his cock.

"Oh my fucking god," he exhaled in a rush. The hand slid smoothly over his swollen flesh, spreading the warmth that made every sensation ten-fold in intensity.

"Inside, baby, inside! Now dammit! Before I come all on my own here," his voice was all shot to hell by now when he struggled get Nick's teasing hardness placed right and slide onto it. If Nick wasn't offering, he was fucking taking what he needed.

"Running a little hot on me, big boy?"

A finger finally slid into him and he mewled and pulled at the heavy body plastered to his back. One finger had slid in without any restriction and as needy as he was, Nick wouldn't have to prepare him for any length of time. He grabbed at the sheet for leverage and pushed up against Nick. "You fucking tease, I need that big fat cock of yours up my ass. Don't play with me, not now; just ram it inside o' me already!"

"That an order, boss?" The tip of Nick's tongue flicked at his earlobe and Warrick was close to babbling incoherently. A second finger probed inside and scissored him fully open while white light exploded behind his shut eyelids when Nick found the sweet spot and masterfully rubbed the tips of his fingers against the gland.

He was all shivers when Nick finally took pity on him and rolled him to his knees to push inside. He welcomed the short burning sensation, without it he would have come from the penetration alone. But it ended too soon as Nick stilled his movements and gripped Warrick's hips hard to hold him still.

"Feel that honey? That's me all inside you." The voice was tightly contained, the rushed breaths rippling along Warrick's spine

"Move, Nicky, move!" His muscles tensed and his fingers curled around the sheet as he gasped for air in anticipation until Nick relented and set up a slow pace that had his prostate fire off sparks along his spine. There was not one coherent thought left in his over-heated brain as he was finally fucked, just the way he wanted. He barely registered the words Nick panted in his ear, all he felt was their skins grinding together with every deep stroke and he couldn't have given a damn about anything else. There was nothing but the sensation of Nick finally taking him, flaws and all, on the wild emotional roller coaster that was his man making love to him. The fact that he was stuttering and drooling between muffled invectives, tearing at the sheets and begging his man for deeper and harder didn't faze him. Not as long as Nick's arms were around him, holding him and carrying him towards that blinding light.

When Nick's hand closed around his erection and started stroking in time with the increasing cadence of their hips, he shifted upwards and back, leaning on Nick's chest and pushing down to have it all.

"C'mon baby, c'mon, come with me, so fucking close baby, don't get me off without you," he got out between rushed exhales.

Then Nick bit at his neck and his body responded by clenching every muscle and forcing the air out of him in a soft wail when he shot into Nick's hand and all over their messed up bed.

Nick's arms held him upright and close while he came with his head leaning against Nick's shoulder. Small shudders wracking his entire body with every spurt. Nick buried his head at the crook of his neck and tightened his hold when coming deep inside of him with a soft keening sound.

He went totally lax in Nick's hold, knees bent and arms wrapping around Nick's sweaty body to keep them in balance. The tendons on Nick's forearms were tensed from the strain of holding him up and he smiled at the secure grip Nick still had on him. No matter how his muscles would be aching later, Nick wouldn't let go. So Warrick let himself fall slowly forward, pulling Nick along and supporting them both with his arms before he managed to roll them both to their sides. They remained entangled in a mess of arms and legs, still joined, still breathless and weakened from their encounter.

It took them several minutes to get their bearing back.

The tendons on Nick's forearms finally relaxed, still twined around Warrick's middle and he moved with a groan and carefully pulled out, despite Warrick’s huffs of protest.

"You wore me out, Warr," Nick complained to the nape of his neck. "You've gotta call Griss and tell him I ain't coming in tonight, coz I can't fricken move."

Warrick chuckled and shifted to lie on his back and gather the destroyed man into his hold. "Aw, my poor baby is all worked out and needs some cuddling."

"I'm not even gonna get into this, honey-bun. I fold the cards, sweetie. You mock me while I lay here, all worked out." Nick pouted.

Warrick grinned at the petulant tone and pulled his man closer. "Next time we'll just hold hands like you wanted. No sex for a month, okay?"

Nick snorted with laughter. "You can't go without having me more than two days, big boy. Who you trying to kid here?"

Warrick rested his chin on the ruffled hair. "I might have to turn to Cath for help if my man can't hold up."

"Do it and I'll kill you and that's a promise," Nick growled.

"I'm sure Cath has some seduction points on how to convert a saint, up her sleeve." Warrick laughed, "What were you thinking Nicky-baby?"

"You're an ass," Nick rolled over to lay on top of him and glare daggers in his direction. "Call me a fricken saint again and I'll work you over so good you'll be applying to a monastery. Wanna start all over again? I'm game."

"Perv." Warrick grinned and tried to roll his man over to his side, he liked spooning Nick and always manage to arrange his man into that position. After a mock fight if nothing else worked. But this time the damned man was slipping out of his hold and crawling over him on all fours. "Where you goin'?"

"To get the handcuffs, you stay put!" Nick pointed a pistol-finger at him and rounded the bed to get to the bathroom.

"You look fine, sweetie," Warrick mocked. "No need to jet off to fix your hair, I love it just the way it is."

"You just had to remind me?" Nick groaned the reply from the bathroom.

"Aw, c'mon baby, I promise not to mess it up!"

There was the sound of water running and Warrick was just about to drag himself out of bed when Nick reappeared with a towel, and neatly combed hair. Something that Warrick just had to remedy by messing with it the moment Nick was close enough to be hauled into bed and ruffled up.

The pout was priceless and Warrick wrestled his man down and snatched the towel to clean them up before tossing it to the floor and spooning his man.

Nick's left hand came up to valiantly try flattening down the hair; sighing theatrically when Warrick rubbed his chin on the top of his head.

Warrick just grinned and pulled him closer. Listening to the deep sigh as Nick finally gave in and melted into his hold. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his nose on the shoulder. "Nick, before – y'know I didn't mean anything I said, dont'cha? I mean - we're cool, right?"

"Yeah, I know babe, just lettin' steam out, I know Rick, no worries."

Warrick kissed the nape of his man's neck. "You are a fucking saint, Stokes! You should have smacked me and had me shut my trap. I had no right to say those things, baby and I'm sorry." He rolled them over enough to lay Nick on the stomach, the way his man usually slept, and himself partly on top of the man, snuggling in to lay his head on the shoulder. His hand trailed up along Nick's arm to the relaxed hand and laced their fingers together.

"Love you man, I only smack you when you ask for it. We're cool, bro." Nick curled his fingers around Warrick's and squeezed lightly.

"Don't ever fucking leave me, Nicky, ya hear?" Warrick rested his cheek on the broad back of his lover.

Nick chuckled into the pillow. "And my man ends the day with the obligatory chick-flick moment."

"I'll pop you one, Stokes!" Warrick laughed and lifted his head to look at the fucking tease.

"Nah, you wouldn't, your halo is too tight. You're just a good-hearted softie, playing it tough, babe. I called your cards a long time ago." The dimples deepened and Nick buried his face in the pillow to hide his merriment.

"I know you did," Warrick smiled down at the drowsy man. And he knew Nick did know him and the odd thing was that it didn't scare him shitless. If felt strangely safe. Nick would call his cards or set him straight when he swerved, yet he'd never hold it against him in the log run. Nick really was the only person he'd felt secure enough with to freak out and go tripping on. But he also was the one person Warrick was scared stiff to lose. Which was a strange contradiction that still worked in perfect synchrony.

He kissed the rim of the shoulder-blade. "I fuckin' love you, Nicky, and wipe that grin off your face."

Nick snorted into the pillow and huffed when Warrick lovingly slapped the butt in retaliation before shutting the light and wrapping himself around his man.

Warrick deducted that the only thing that separated Nick from sainthood was the fucking teasing he sported just to drive his man insane. And he always soaked it all up and begged for more.

He was so helplessly twisted when it came to his man.


End file.
